Chapter 9

"Alora, is it?"

His voice is smooth, a velvet whisper that sends a jolt through my system. I freeze, unsure of how to respond, my mind racing in a thousand directions at once. How do I explain myself? How do I even begin to explain why I, the daughter of the Duke of Lavigne, am here in this place, dressed like this, stripped of every ounce of dignity? I've only known this man for a few hours, yet here he is, seeing me at my most vulnerable, my most exposed.

He's staring at me, his gaze intense, his eyes travelling over my arms, my shoulders, my legs. But curiously, he doesn't linger on my chest like the other men have. His fingers are twirling a lock of my hair, the motion almost absent-minded, as if he's deep in thought. His other hand rests casually in the pocket of his trousers, the epitome of ease and control. One side of his dark hair is pushed back, revealing the sharp angle of his jaw, while the other side falls slightly over his brow, giving him a roguish, almost boyish look. But there's nothing boyish about him. He looks tired, like he's been fighting battles I can't even begin to comprehend, yet his exhaustion only adds to his allure. His eyes, though heavy-lidded, blink gently, framed by lashes so long they nearly touch his cheeks.

As I study his face, trying to commit every detail to memory, I suddenly realise he's asked me a question. His gaze locks onto mine, a penetrating stare that sends shivers cascading down my spine. I'm certain he can see the goosebumps rising on my arms, the physical manifestation of the effect he's having on me. But there's something about his eyes that draws me in, something comforting, even as it unnerves me. When we first met, those eyes were cold, ruthless, like shards of ice. Now, though, there's a warmth there, a curiosity, as if he's trying to figure out why I've trespassed into his world.

"Lady Lavigne?"

"Ah—yes?" The words tumble out before I can stop them, too startled by the sudden intimacy of my name on his lips. I was staring too long, lost in his gaze.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is firm, deeper than I remember, laced with a subtle irritation that makes my heart skip a beat. He's concerned, yes, but there's something else—a curiosity that seems almost dangerous.

What do I say? If I tell him the truth, he might tell my brother. He might think I'm a fool, and I can't afford that. Not now. Not when Atlas is already burdened with so much. But the Grand Duke… could he help me? Or is he someone I should be wary of? My mind is a whirlwind, and I can't decide whether to trust him or keep my secrets close.

"Why, can I not be here?" My voice is defensive, but it's also a weak attempt at deflection. I don't know how to explain myself, and the truth is, I don't even fully understand what I'm doing here.

"This is not a place for ladies," he replies, his tone hardening. There's a sternness in his voice, an authority that sends a cold wave of dread through me. He's angry, perhaps even disappointed.

"I am not here as a lady," I retort, my voice trembling slightly. "I am here for what this is."

"And what exactly is this?" He takes a step closer, his presence overwhelming, and suddenly it feels like I'm simply a spec of dust within the milky way. His gaze is unyielding, pinning me in place, and I realise with a start that I don't have an answer. I don't know what this is, this place, this situation I've thrown myself into. All I know is that I should never have come here. I'm like a bird that has landed right in front of a waiting cat, and now I'm caught, trapped, with no way out. My heart is racing, panic clawing at my insides. He's blocking my escape, and I'm certain he's going to tell Atlas. My brother will be furious, and I'll be ruined.

"Well?" His voice breaks through my spiralling thoughts, sharp and demanding.

I take a deep breath, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. Here goes nothing. "Well, My Grace, why don't you tell me? Why did you drag me here?" My words are bold, a last-ditch effort to deflect, but inside I'm trembling.

He laughs, a deep, rich sound that vibrates through the air, and his dimples appear, deepening the lines of his cheeks. That laugh, that smile—it's intoxicating, and I know, deep down, that it might just be my downfall. As much as I hate to admit it, he is stunningly gorgeous, and it's infuriating. I may hate his guts, but he's as enticing as asperitas clouds.

"Why don't I just show you what kind of place this is, Snow Bunny?" His voice drops, laced with a teasing edge that makes my stomach flip.

He steps closer, his movements slow, deliberate, and I find myself backing up until I stumble into a leather armchair behind me. I've spent all this time focusing on him, on his face, his body, that I haven't even taken in the room around us. Now, as I try to look away, to gather my thoughts, I find that all I want to look at is him. The room is bathed in shadows, the dim light barely stretching from a single lamp flickering in the corner, casting long, ghostly shapes across the walls. But even in the dark, his eyes shine like a nebula, swirling with emotions I can't decipher. And I—I'm the moon reflected in them, drawn into his orbit with no hope of escape.

He's so close now, only inches from my face. I can feel his breath, warm against my skin, mingling with my own. My heart is beating so fast, I'm certain it's going to explode. I don't understand this feeling, this intense rush that's surging through me. There's a pit in my stomach, an ache that's both thrilling and terrifying, and my chest feels like it's filled with a million gold pieces, heavy and priceless.

"This kind of place…" His voice is a whisper, and he's only an inch away now. "Are you sure you want to know?" The way he says it, so softly, so intimately, sends a shiver down my spine. I can't think, can't breathe, and I know he can hear my heart pounding, can feel the way my body trembles beneath his gaze.

"Alora…" He breathes my name like a secret, like a prayer, and it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. I'm euphoric, light-headed, and he's so close—so close I can feel the heat of his skin, the strength of his body. My hand moves on its own, finding its way to his chest, and I'm startled by the firmness beneath my fingers. His chest is solid, warm, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart, a strong, reassuring rhythm. This is a man's body, I realise with a start. No. This is his body, and the thought sends a rush of heat through me.

His eyes follow my hand as it moves, tracing the line of his scarred collarbone, exposed by the open collar of his shirt. The touch is electric, and I can feel his gaze like a physical force, searing into my skin, branding me. I'm breathing hard, my chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, but it's not enough. I need more. I've stolen all the oxygen in the room, and I'm still struggling to find air, to calm my racing mind, to focus. But I can't. I can't stop. My mind is racing, spiralling out of control, and I'm drowning in this sea of sensation.

"What's wrong?" His voice is low, teasing, his hair falls on my cheek as his fingers slowly slip the strap of my dress off my shoulder. His touch is like fire, burning through me, igniting every nerve, every cell. The exhilaration is overwhelming, unlike anything I've ever felt before. It's too much, but I don't want it to stop. His other hand tightens on my waist, holding me in place, keeping me from escaping. But escape is the last thing on my mind. Right now, this feels like heaven, even though I know it's wrong. So wrong. But this man—this infuriating, tempting man—brings out the worst in me. He makes me do things I shouldn't, makes me feel things I don't understand.

He's moving again, and suddenly, I'm no longer on my feet. With effortless strength, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing, and before I know it, I'm on his lap, my thighs straddling his legs. His body is reclined in the armchair, relaxed, while I'm anything but. The position is intimate, scandalous, and I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks as I realise how exposed I am. The fabric of my dress has ridden up, far higher than it should, leaving me feeling vulnerable, embarrassed… and excited?

Now, I'm the one looking down at him, and the sight is almost too much to bear. He's smiling up at me, that devilish grin that makes my heart skip a beat. The strap of my dress is still halfway down my arm, and I'm acutely aware of how exposed I am, how much of me he can see. But instead of feeling ashamed, I'm captivated. He looks like a reverie, a beautiful, dangerous thunderstorm, and I can't tear my eyes away.

His hands are still on my waist, holding me in place, and I can feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric. His grip is firm, possessive, and it sends a thrill through me that I can't ignore. I know I should pull away, should stop this before it goes too far, but I can't. I don't want to. I want to stay here, lost in this moment, lost in him.

"Alora," he whispers again, and this time, it's a command, a call that I can't resist. His voice is like a siren's song, pulling me in, drawing me closer to the edge. And I know that if I fall, there will be no going back. But right now, I don't care. All I can think about is him, his hands on my body, his breath on my skin, his eyes devouring me.

And as I look down at him, at the man who's unravelling me piece by piece, I know that I'm lost. Completely and utterly lost.